Chapter 4

The headlights cut through the darkness as the engine’s hum blended with the ringing in their ears. It was past 2 a.m., and they were running on fumes—exhausted, exhilarated, and still wired from the concert.

The show had been a sensory overload: pulsing lights, screaming fans, and music that hit like a freight train. Matthew slumped in the passenger seat, his head tipped back, a tired but satisfied look on his face.

“Okay, fine,” he said, his voice rough from shouting over the crowd. “They’re catchy as hell.”

Alex shot him a sidelong glance. “Told you so. Who’s your favorite?”

Matthew hesitated a moment, caught off guard.

Was it Jungkook, maybe?Yeah, I think that was the guy’s name. He was straight fire . . .

He stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of what he’d been thinking.

“Umm . . . the one with the hair,” he stammered, waving a hand. “You know.”

Alex laughed at Matthew’s evasion. “Ooo, good answer, Hargrove. Real specific.”

Before Matthew could respond, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning followed by a menacing rumble of thunder. A few spatters of rain hit the glass, followed by a full-throated downpour.

Alex muttered a curse, easing off the gas as the road turned slick.

“Fall weather in Iowa,” Matthew muttered, leaning toward the windshield, looking into the darkness ahead. “Gotta love it.”

Alex’s tightened his grip on the wheel, his focus narrowing as the storm intensified. “Yeah, you never know from one minute to the—oh shit!”

A shadow loomed on the road—a twisted chunk of metal debris. Alex swerved, but too late. The vehicle jolted, a sickening thud reverberating through the frame. For a heartbeat, they held their breath, but then the telltale wobble started, the right front tire deflating fast.

“Damn it,” Alex hissed, wrestling the SUV onto the shoulder.

The rain hammered down as they climbed out, the cold biting through their jackets. Matthew knelt down, squinting at the damage—a gash in the tire, the wheel rim scuffed up but intact.

“Welp . . . looks like the spare’s our only shot.”

Alex hovered, hands shoved in his pockets, looking lost.

“I . . . uh, I’ve never done this before. Back home, we’d just call Triple A or whatever.”

Matthew looked up with a wry smile. “City boy,” he teased, shaking his head. “Don’t worry—I’ve got this.”

They dug out the spare tire and jack from the cluttered cargo space as the rain soaked their hair and dripped down their necks. Matthew squatted down by the wheel and got to work, his biceps straining against the stubborn lug nuts with the tire iron.

Alex hunched down beside him, feeling a bit useless. He watched as Matthew’s hands—calloused from farm work—twisted the metal free like it was nothing.

“Got ‘em. Hard part’s done,” Matthew said, not looking up. “Grab that spare for me while I get this one off.”

Alex reached back, fumbling for it. In his haste, he lost his balance and grabbed at the wheel hub to steady himself. A sharp metal edge caught his palm, slicing deep. Blood welled up, fast and dark, swirling into the rain like ink.

“Ow—damn!” he yelped, jerking back. His stomach heaved at the sight, a wave of nausea he tried to mask with a shaky laugh. “It’s fine, I’m good.”

Matthew’s head snapped up, eyes zeroing in on the cut.

“Let me see that,” he said, his voice suddenly serious.

He grasped Alex’s hand, gentle but firm, and turned it to catch the glow of the headlights. Blood streaked down his fingers.

“It’s nothing,” Alex said, his voice unsteady.

“Well, it’s not nothing, but it’s not too deep,” Matthew said, holding Alex’s hand gingerly, his thumb brushing the wound’s edge to gauge it. “It’s messy enough to need wrapping, though. Hang on.”

He went back to the tailgate and rummaged around in the cargo space, returning with a dusty first aid kit he’d spied earlier—some relic that belonged to Alex’s brother, probably. Matthew dug into it, pulling out gauze and tape with the calm of someone who’d patched up more than a few scrapes.

“Hold still,” he said, pressing the gauze to Alex’s palm and wrapping it securely. “You’re okay.”

Alex nodded and watched mutely as Matthew finished dressing the wound.

“There,” he said. “That should do for now.”

“Thanks, man,” Alex mumbled, gently flexing his hand to see how it felt.

“No worries. We’ll need to clean it better when we get home, though.”

Matthew scrunched back down and finished the tire change in silence, the rain easing to a drizzle as he finally lowered the jack. He wiped his hands on his wet jeans.

“Christ, we’re both soaked,” he groused. “Wish we had towels or something. Oh well, nothing we can do about it now. Get in, Kim. I’m driving.”

Alex opened his mouth to argue, but the exhaustion—and the bandage on his hand—won out. “Fine. But only ‘cause you’re bossy.”

Matthew snorted and trudged around to the driver’s side while Alex climbed in the passenger’s side. He slid behind the steering wheel–his waterlogged jeans squelching on the vinyl upholstery—and gunned the motor to life. They pulled back onto I-80, the spare tire humming beneath them.

Alex leaned back and let the rain’s soft patter lull him as the miles ticked by. Matthew was humming a tune under his breath—“Dynamite,” of course—a faint echo of the evening they’d just shared. Alex’s lips curved into a sleepy smile, his bandaged hand resting in his lap.

The rain, the road, Matthew—everything blurred together in a haze of exhaustion. Even though he was soaked to the bone, Alex felt oddly content.

As the storm faded behind them, the world dissolved into a dream.

*

He was twelve again, back in the suburban sprawl of Schaumburg, Illinois, standing in the junior high gym at the first dance of seventh grade.

The place reeked of old basketball games—popcorn, sweat, and cheap body spray. It was a battlefield of awkwardness: boys clustered on one side of the bleachers, girls giggling in knots on the other, and a blaring pop song splitting the space between them.

Alex perched on the edge of a bleacher, his sneakers scuffing the polished floor, his dark hair falling into his eyes. One by one, the brave ones peeled off—Tommy Whitaker asking Jenny Carlson, Mike Russo pairing up with Katie Stein—until the floor was dotted with swaying pairs.

He stayed put, a knot of jealousy twisting in his gut. None of the girls glanced his way, and he couldn’t shake the thought that it was because he was different, not like Tommy or Mike with their easy grins and loud laughs. He wasn’t one of the popular kids, the ones who owned the room.

But jealousy was only half the story. The other half was a curdled fear—what if a girl did ask him? What would he do then? Stumble through a dance, hands sweaty, pretending he knew how to act? He tugged at the collar of his too-stiff button-up—the one his mom had ironed and insisted he wear—and wished he were anywhere else.

“Hey,” a voice piped up beside him, breaking his spiral. A skinny kid with red hair and thick glasses slid onto the bleacher next to him. His freckled face was scrunched in a scowl.

“These dances are so freakin’ dumb. My mom made me come,” he said, pushing his glasses up with a finger. “Said it’s good for socializing. Yeah . . . right.”

Alex chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Yeah, mine too. Thinks I’ll magically turn into a ladies’ man.”

The kid flashed a gap-toothed grin of camaraderie. “I’d a lot rather be home playing Call of Duty.”

“Same,” Alex said with a rueful laugh. For a moment, the gym didn’t feel so suffocating.

Then she appeared—a blonde girl from his English class, Emily, pretty in a way that made the other boys nudge each other. She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, her smile bright and expectant.

“Wanna dance, Alex?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Before he could fumble a response, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him onto the floor.

The gym spun, lights and bodies blurring, and he was dancing—stiff, mechanical steps to a fast beat. The other kids cheered or laughed. His parents would be thrilled—See, Alex, you’re fitting in!

Then the music shifted into something slow and syrupy. Around him, couples shuffled closer, arms looping awkwardly around waists and shoulders. Emily slid her hands to his shoulders, and he reciprocated, his arms around her, palms clammy against her back.

This was it, the moment he was supposed to want—close to a girl, her perfume sharp in his nose, her smile soft in the dim light. The other boys grinned, sneaking glances at their partners.

But he felt . . . nothing. No spark, no thrill. Just a creeping unease, a twist in his stomach.

What was wrong with him? She was nice, pretty even, but it didn’t click. He scanned the gym, desperate for an anchor, and his eyes landed on the redheaded boy, still slouched on the bleachers.

The kid looked up, catching his gaze, and then—impossibly—the freckled face blurred at the edges like melting wax. The glasses vanished, the hair darkened, and suddenly it was Matthew sitting there, hazel eyes locked on his.

“Matthew!” he cried out.

*

The dream dissolved, and he jerked awake, the sound of his voice echoing in his ears. Matthew’s humming cut off mid-note.

“You okay?” Matthew asked, glancing over, his brow creased with concern. “You called my name.”

Alex blinked, disoriented, as the parking lot near Burge Hall came into focus through the windshield. They were back in Iowa City, the dashboard clock glowing 3:17 a.m.

His face burned, the memory of that junior high dance clinging to him like his still-damp underwear.

“Uh, yeah. Just . . . a weird dream, I guess.”

Matthew nodded as he pulled into a parking space and cut off the engine.

“Well, we both need to change into some dry clothes and crash. Been a long night,” he said, handing the keys back to Alex.

They climbed out, the cold breeze on their still-wet clothes and hair snapping them fully awake.

Alex trudged behind Matthew into the dorm, hands shoved in his pockets, the echo of the dream still lingering in his mind.